


The Lost Moments

by Somekindofcontraption



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Everything's made up and gender doesn't matter, F/F, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Frottage, Kissing, M/M, Romance, this whole thing is soft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:48:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26572450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somekindofcontraption/pseuds/Somekindofcontraption
Summary: "If Crowley had ever mentioned it, Aziraphale would say that he had forgotten the name of the city, the year. He might even claim he’d been alive too long to remember every one of the meetings between himself and Crowley, that there had been too many to count, that he couldn’t possibly remember each one in any great detail.That was not true in the slightest."Aziraphale remembers each moment where a kiss could have happened, but didn't.Until one day it does.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	1. Paris 1924

If Crowley had ever mentioned it, Aziraphale would say that he had forgotten the name of the city, the year. He might even claim he’d been alive too long to remember every one of the meetings between himself and Crowley, that there had been too many to count, that he couldn’t possibly remember each one in any great detail.

That was not true in the slightest.

Aziraphale remembered every moment of his long, long lifetime; in particular, every moment with Crowley was catalogued extensively, from the menu, to the venue, and even the choice of outfit. He remembered each quirking eyebrow betraying a smile at the corner of wine-reddened lips, each shared laugh, each clever quip, each too-long stare with those golden eyes.

Each moment where a kiss could have happened, but didn’t. 

There, hidden in the host of memories of meetings with Crowley, was an ever-growing selection of times that he had wanted to kiss the demon, but had thought better of it. Times when he’d longed to lean in and press their lips together. Times when he’d wanted it so badly it hurt; an intense ache, deep in his chest, something beyond his mortal corporation, something deep within his true being, something truly special.

So yes, Aziraphale did remember. 

The year was 1924, and the city was Paris. They hadn’t been there together since the guillotine, since the revolution. They hadn’t even spoken in years, not since the request made in St. James Park (1862, heavy sideburns, short hair, polished boots, sweet cologne — no food shared.) 

When they ran into each other Crowley, who was presenting as female, had short cropped flapper hair and the garçon garb stylish in Paris at the time. A beaded headband encircled her head, looking rather like an intricate halo (not that Aziraphale would mention _that_.) Aziraphale wore a sharp tan number that was at least twenty years behind the times, his hair still fluffed into an unruly cloud on his head. 

The incident at St. James went unmentioned. 

The restaurant they found themselves in was a small, intimate affair. The sort of place with no sign out front, that you could only find if you already knew it was there. At a small table by the warmth of a fire they had more than their fair share of cabernet sauvignon, of champagne, of dainty little handmade aperitifs that were strictly off-menu. 

They laughed as the people around them danced, sharing between them helpings of apple galette, soft creams, handmade bonbons with intricate hand-piped patterns, and of course, crêpes. Sweet as anything, and stuffed with stewed apples (Crowley) and pears (Aziraphale). 

Aziraphale pretended not to notice that Crowley had given him most of her share.

Stumbling through the streets of Paris, arm in arm, they were utterly directionless. Meandering along, they laughed about everything and nothing. Crowley opened her mouth wide when she laughed, unrestrained. Aziraphale’s lips pursed slightly at the edges to keep the laughter in, as if laughter were a forbidden thing, as if God Herself would strike him down for daring to giggle.

Then, it rained. 

The sweet heat of summer steamed off of the cobblestone streets as rain bounced off of the stones. The hazy ozone scent of petrichor gathering in the air between them. Crowley, with neither jacket nor umbrella, looking up at the sky with her arms outstretched, her loose-fitting skirt becoming damp and sticking to the flat lines of her body, the stockings on her legs growing dark as they were soaked through. Crowley started spinning like a top with a mad smile on her face, beautiful in her abandon, wild curls clinging to the lines of her forehead.

Aziraphale stood, drenching, protected only by his overcoat, watching this insane and wonderful demon dance in a long-needed summer rain. The sight of her was something grand, something that made his heart feel too big for his corporation. He’d hardly seen her so carefree and easy, perhaps not even since the Garden. 

Beautiful. 

With the weight of it expanding in his chest, Aziraphale slowly and purposefully removed his jacket. Crowley caught the movement and stopped dancing, mouth slightly agape, as if she hadn’t ever considered that the jacket _comes off_. Aziraphale carefully draped it over her shoulders. 

“You’ll catch your death at this rate, dear girl,” Aziraphale murmured, smothering a small smile, hands fussing at the collar of his jacket as he wrapped it around Crowley’s shoulders. They were close enough to feel each other’s breath, or to kiss; another lost moment to add to the list. 

“Come off it,” Crowley said breathlessly, “Catch my death? This corporation wouldn't dare—“

The feeling overflowed within him. Possessed by it Aziraphale suddenly, _finally,_ closed that uncrossable space between them, framing Crowley’s wet face in his hands, and covering her mouth in a warm, sweet kiss. For a moment Crowley, who seemed always to be in motion, stilled. Then, like wax dripping over the edge of a taper candle she spilled into the kiss with a small sound so endearing that Aziraphale felt as though he were melting too.

When Aziraphale moved to pull away, Crowley whined, grabbing at his braces with wet, cold hands like a tether, like a lifeline. The kiss was disastrous for the way things used to be, and when Crowley opened her mouth for Aziraphale to slip his tongue inside, he was sure that he would burst free from his mortal form, entirely overwhelmed as he was with Crowley.

As quickly as it had started, the moment passed. 

Aziraphale’s jacket, soaked through, had slumped to reveal Crowley’s bare shoulders, the constellations of freckles visible even in the dim light, in the rain. She looked up at Aziraphale with golden eyes, pupils blown, lips spit-slick and red from kissing.

“Angel _,”_ Crowley’s voice was absolutely ruined, full of love. How had he never noticed before? Her hands were on his shoulders now, neither pulling nor pushing, anchored by two points to her companion. Her love surrounded them both like a warm blanket. “ _Angel.”_

They stood like that for some time in the rain, staring into each other’s eyes, until a tolling clock startled them from their trance. They parted without a word, Crowley still clutching Aziraphale’s jacket around herself as she disappeared into the night.


	2. The Garden 4004 BC

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crawley try this making love business.  
> Mind the tags, but also this whole thing is soft, because I'm soft.

The year was 4004 BC. They were in the Garden the first time it happened.

The Garden was to be decommissioned, and Crawley and Aziraphale would be reassigned. They’d spent the afternoon eating pears; or rather, Aziraphale had been eating most of them, the sticky juices dripping down his hands and drying on his skin in the heat.

Aziraphale was ever wary of the demon before him, of his potential wily plans… only, there weren’t many wiles to get up to in the garden with Adam and Eve gone, and Crawley had proven to be a more than adequate conversational partner, so the two often passed their time together this way, chatting.

Adam and Eve had just been shamed for their nudity, but it had not yet occurred to the pair that they should be ashamed to have their own bodies on display. As such, Aziraphale reclined in the shade of a tree, his white robes pushed open to bathe his pale body in sunshine. 

Crawley bathed naked in the clear, cool river that carved it’s way through the garden’s center. His wings were open wide, skating the surface as he washed the dirt from his skin. His wild, red curls gathered over one shoulder, vividly red in the light of the sun. 

Keeping an eye on him, was what Aziraphale told himself and Gabriel. He was simply keeping an eye on the demon, in case there was thwarting to be done. There was nothing untoward about making sure one’s natural enemy was kept in line. 

Crawley sloshed noisily out of the river, wings flicking drops of water all around as he shook himself off. Grinning mischievously, he deposited himself gracelessly into the reclining angel’s lap, the slick skin of his thighs warm against Aziraphale’s own. Aziraphale huffed indignantly. 

“Really, _must you?”_ He sniffed, even while idly rubbing a bit of dirt Crawley had missed on his shoulder. “You’re getting me all _wet._ ”

“Did you see what Adam and Eve were getting up to before they left?” Crawley whispered conspiratorially, his face just inches from Aziraphale’s own. “Pressing themselves together like that, getting all _wiggly._ Was that something your lot came up with, then?”

Aziraphale smiled serenely at Crawley. “They call it “making love.” Beautiful, even if it looks a bit _sticky.”_

_“Making love,”_ Crawley repeated slowly, tasting the words on his tongue. He wriggled his hips in a decidedly snake-like way, pushing in closer as if not to be overheard. There were almost touching noses. “It looked like fun, yeah? I don’t suppose we could— I mean, the configuration is different— but could _we_ do that?”

Aziraphale’s corporation felt strangely tingly as he considered the suggestion. There was nothing to say they _couldn’t_ try it. Nothing that he was aware of, anyway. Could a demon take part in something created by Heaven? He tried to picture them together as he had seen Adam and Eve, wrapped around each other, writhing in the dirt, soft moans filling the clearing.

In his lap, his… _appendage…_ had jumped up, hardening, and was now pressing against the taught curve of Crawley’s belly. Crawley looked at it with interest, his own beginning to fill and twitch as if in response.

“No one would have to know,” Crawley said quickly, meeting Aziraphale’s eyes. “Can’t be any harm in it for you, if your lot invented it. As long as you don’t tell Hell, it can’t very well hurt me either.”  


Aziraphale looked thoughtfully at the demon in his lap, before finally consenting with a slow nod. Looking down between them, he saw their appendages now matched; hard as anything, flushed red at the tip, and leaking a clear fluid from the slit at the top. 

_Penis._ The word came to him. He’d learned it from the promotional materials Gabriel had handed out back in Heaven. Crawley’s was longer than his own, thinner, and framed by a shock of red hair. His own penis was short and fat, nestled beneath a dusting of blonde curls, matching with the stature of his chosen corporation. 

With a vague idea of how to proceed, Aziraphale gripped Crawley’s hips and experimentally thrusted upwards. He was rewarded with a pleasant feeling between his legs, and a quiet gasp from Crawley, who bucked back into him to similar results.

Getting the idea they began to move, pushing slowly against each other, finding a jerky, erratic rhythm that was all their own. Aziraphale moaned softly, tightening his grip on the demons’ hips, nails scraping the pale, soft skin there.

They rocked together for what felt like ages. Crawley began making a soft keening noise, pressing his face into the hollow of Aziraphale’s neck. Aziraphale bit his lip, stifling the noises he felt compelled to make as he concentrated on what his body was feeling, the rising pleasure between his thighs.

He had begun to sweat, a thin sheen of it covering his skin. It was not unpleasant. Each point of contact was incredible, unlike anything he’d felt, and he smoothed his hands over Crawley’s folded wings as he continued the deliciously slow slide of body against body.

The urge to rut against Crawley began to grow more and more frantic, and soon the sound of slapping skin against skin filled the clearing as the demon bounced eagerly in his lap, his thin, muscled thighs rubbing against Aziraphale’s soft ones, their penises trapped between their bodies, the friction a delicious revelation.

But oh, the look. The look on Crawley’s face was so fervent, so full of pleasure. Aziraphale looked at him reverently, and on a whim moved his hands from the demons hips to his face, taking it in his hands, framing it, gazing into yellow eyes, pupils blown wide with pleasure. The mess of gorgeous red curls tickled the backs of his hands, bouncing in time with their thrusts.

_“Angel,”_ Crawley choked out suddenly, spurting hot fluid over the push of Aziraphale’s belly. The feeling that had been building up inside his stomach became overwhelming as his penis slid through the slick mess between them and he soon followed, twitching and pulsing before his jerking hips finally stilled.

“Oh,” Aziraphale murmured, eyes moving from the mess they’d made to Crawley’s face. The demon was flushed a pleasant pink, his slitted eyes half-lidded, mouth open. Crawley was looking back with him with a look rather like adoration on his face, and it was at that moment that it happened; a bone deep feeling, primal and innate and out of nowhere. Aziraphale wanted to press their mouths together. He wanted to _taste._ “ _Oh.”_

Aziraphale had seen Adam and Eve do something similar when they made love, pressing their mouths together, their tongues. He wanted to know what Crawley tasted like; he wanted it very badly. Crawley cleared his throat, pulling Aziraphale from his thoughts.

“Did I lose you there, Angel?” Crawley chuckled, breathing shaky. “That was— wow, yeah, that was good, wasn’t it? I can see what all the fuss was about.”

Crawley shimmied backwards off of Aziraphale’s lap and stood. With a look of mild curiosity he ran one long finger through the mess on his stomach, then rubbed two fingers together, wrinkling his nose. 

Aziraphale smiled as he watched the demon indulge his curiosity, but his mind was still fixated on the idea of chasing down those soft-looking lips with his own. Crawley looked over at him, grinning sheepishly. “Bit messy.”

“Yes, it was indeed,” Aziraphale heard himself reply, still staring at Crawley’s mouth. Words seemed inadequate for the weight of the moment. “Both lovely, and messy. I can see why they liked it so much. _”_

Not long after their antics by the river, Aziraphale was finally reassigned, as was Crawley. It would be some time before they saw each other again. Aziraphale discovered later that they ought not have indulged themselves at all in the afternoon of lovemaking; you were meant to be in love to make love, as it turned out, and heaven frowned on that sort of activity in general but also on angels doing it, specifically. With demons or otherwise.

Even still, Aziraphale often thought about that day by the river. Something so beautiful could only be holy, although he kept the thought to himself. He’d replay the day again and again in his mind; the look on Crawley’s face, the way he smelled, the dusting of freckles on his shoulders, the slow undulation of his hips. 

The only difference was that in his imagination, he sweetly pressed his mouth to Crawley’s before they parted.


End file.
